


Fates Worse Than Death

by Rue_River_Styx



Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ancient Greece, Anonymity, Blogging, Confessional, Confessions, Essays, Good Writing, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Poetry, Literary References & Allusions, Literary Theory, Literature, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mythology References, Philosophy, Poetry, Poor Life Choices, Realization, References to Depression, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, Story within a Story, Suicidal Thoughts, Sylvia Plath - Freeform, Thought Projection, Tragedy, Valentine's Day, Writers, Writing, not by me though, suicide awareness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rue_River_Styx/pseuds/Rue_River_Styx
Summary: All such people think death is grave, sorrow filled, the epitome of all devastations. This person’s insistence on bleakness has led me to discover the truth behind those who seek out strangers to sell their souls to one final time—they are afraid. Now, I know this statement seems obvious and cliché, but clichés are so because of their own truth. I could sense the lost soul’s fear, and the combination of two fears, tragic existence and pitiful death, was the specific spell that had been brewed over many years, finally transforming into a hex and latching onto their mind like a demon does to a vulnerable soul. These two ingredients cannot be combined, like two ends of magnets.
Series: Disenchanted Dystopians [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588915





	Fates Worse Than Death

“The willing, destiny guides them.

The unwilling, destiny drags them.”

Seneca

Likewise with everything I do, at my night job I have been consistently asking myself the most unanswerable question: why? Why would I be paid to help others through their day, and why as a society of “humans” do we hire professionals to help others who have lived their life already, cling to consciousness longer? Is natural death really such a frightening unknown, a dark corner where demons lurk, something so horrifying we pay thousands of dollars to have others dedicate their hours to helping us get through? Who began the rumor that our friend the Grim Reaper was the bad guy? Would it not be comforting to have him waiting on the other side as a greeter?

A lost soul impacted me in a frightening way recently and inadvertently triggered one of my frequent “Why?” questionnaires. I used to hate the word, but now find it most useful in my search for…something. Everything. Nothing. Why would someone so lost and severely suicidal come to me, a random, unexperienced individual with no training in critical situations for help? I should rephrase, as they did not want help, but simply someone to confess their troubles to, the same troubles that pushed them into not an adventurous unknown—their unknown was sinister, their mind having convinced itself (having no previous intervention that would have sent alarms to their nervous system) that there was no escape except the grave unknown. All such people think death is grave, sorrow filled, the epitome of all devastations. This person’s insistence on bleakness has led me to discover the truth behind those who seek out strangers to sell their souls to one final time—they are afraid. Now, I know this statement seems obvious and cliché, but clichés are so because of their own truth. I could sense the lost soul’s fear, and the combination of two fears, tragic existence and pitiful death, was the specific spell that had been brewed over many years, finally transforming into a hex and latching onto their mind like a demon does to a vulnerable soul. These two ingredients cannot be combined, like two ends of magnets.

I do not blame the human subject for falling victim to pitiful death, or, _nearly_ falling victim to the hex, as they messaged me several days after with another message saying they did not wish to remain “here” any longer…I do not blame them, but I do wonder why some people do not experience startling realizations in the midst of their inner wars like I. These strengthening moments are monumental enough to push forth a surge of action, change, if only for a short time, a short time all that is needed to avoid the unthinkable. Reflection saves the soul from impulsive decisions based on emotion, because although emotion is far more trustworthy than thought, it is emotional reflection that provides much-needed balance between the two. I think, had this stranger forced themselves to stop and reflect, they would have noticed the derailing of their fate long before their crossroads (the decision panel including pitiful death or tragic existence) arrived. Perhaps they would not have sought out company of a self-loathing poet if they would have trusted their emotional reflection long ago. Company is all I believe they wanted—when the mind launches into a thoughtful reflection versus an emotional reflection, tunnel vision occurs. Even if I had been a professional who knew how to victim negotiate, I doubt I would have been able to offer any such comfort words that would be able to derail the fate they chose, or, perhaps rather unconsciously twisted through their own thoughts.

Only tunnel vision thinking can procure such unimaginable results. Surely, this is a fate worse than death. This is only half a journey, neither here nor there, neither alive nor dead.

I didn’t plan on discussing this very personal event that took place recently when I started writing today, but I cannot control where my words lead sometimes. Or anytime, really. To be even more personal, my emotions would never choose pitiful death over tragic existence: my energy holds on to the concept of “well, at the very least, wisdom derives from tragedy.” Wisdom, connection with those before, bonding over years and generations of tragic existence is what instinct leads me to perform. I do not think death is an endgame of fate. Pitiful death, the death type that some believe exposes life lessons when really all it does is injure wisdom and causes more pity amongst the creator than it does the unfortunate witness, is not so much a point made as it is one’s self-destruction caused by either disregard or using tunnel vision to prove themselves right, no matter how brutal their “truth” is. Death is not the endgame, but yet another novel we bookworms must read to connect ourselves with millions before. But fate does not appreciate when its red string is sheared in half without completing its craft. Once that string is frayed, its opt out of life destroys the entire creation, leaving another uncompleted project to hover in space for all eternity—

Is hovering in the unknown to avoid your fate (which, you are in fact the master of) really more desirable than existence, no matter how tragic? Why does some minds ignore fate and let thought dictate their decisions instead of their earthly emotions?

Why, I wonder. _Why_ is what sustains me. I must discover _why_ , and that is _why_ my emotions will never allow me to sever my fate by cutting a string prematurely. If I ignore powerful, _painfully_ raw emotion, I allow thoughts, moments of self-loathing to consume my soul, creating the tunnel vision we spoke of earlier. As humans we do have the right to feel pity for ourselves, but let the natural emotion of pride overcome your shadows of doubt. Every tragic existence contains more pride than all of the pitiful deaths you read in history books. Pride, the fatal flaw of heroes, key word being “hero.” Fate does not dictate who is labeled a hero and who is not—I have come to believe, since we are the captains of our own souls, that we decide if we are our own heroes. I do not yet know why we fear death, why I was hired to help others cling to what they deem living, but I will keep searching. Most certainly, I will keep searching, because I cannot thrive on just _wondering_ —for a stubborn fool like me, I must have emotion as proof. No matter how loathing this poet is, along my red string you will always see pride, the fatal flaw of demigods, one of many chosen flaws that ultimately cause our downfall not into death, but into tragic existence.

Tragic existence. What does it include? I cannot speak for others, but from observations I have made a small list of what I hope to avoid in my own fate: childbirth (why bring innocents into the world when there are millions of unwillingly bore children already waiting for guidance?), college (why pay to learn when experience is the teacher of philosophy?), city living (I’m easily over-stimulated, although I would enjoy an opportunity for a large library…), 40+hour work weeks, routine, red carpets, marriage of convenience, amongst many others. As Sylvia a fellow introvert once voiced (broken down to be blunt and honest), spare me.

I don’t know about you, but I would take fate’s tragic existence full of stories—curiosity, creatures, love, blood, languages, smell, rain, noise, colors, wars, plants, words—than a pitiful death full of the same emptiness I felt while keeping myself contained, thus, trapped inside thought forever.

Hmm…since All Saints Day is coming up, known otherwise as Valentine’s Day, I shall bring a more curious side of fate into the conversation. To quote a lyric from Florence + The Machine, “Maybe I’ll see you in another life, if this one wasn’t enough.” In part to an undiagnosed mental disorder that may or may not include ADD, I have this obsessive need to create or come up with a new novel idea every hour I am awake, only to scrap it or morph it into something else entirely; as of late, I have had no luck, and you can only guess how crazy this drives my mania. However, one useful idea I threw around included a scrapped story I have attempted to reconstruct over ten times: in one of the earliest plot attempts, I wanted the story to be slightly magical and fantasy-like. The main characters were drawn together by the famed red string of fate. They were teenage boys in the 1990’s, one an immigrant from what was previously known as the USSR with a large family of females, the other a punk-rock wannabe who loved photography and all things dark. Unfortunately, these were the only details I was able to conjure (that and a few smutty in-between scenes), but I still enjoy the concept of fate aspiring to bring souls together. It is a rather romantic idea, and one has to wonder if we, masters of our own fate, possess some kind of unconscious emotion that dictates where we go, what we pursue and what paths we choose all with the intention of “chance” leading us to intertwine with another’s string.

If this is my first life, I have not yet experienced enough of a tragic existence to stumble upon another who has a strange, otherworldly connection with me. What reasoning do our fates have for pushing us together? Wisdom, I suppose, stories and similar interests, a destiny of sorts; those who seek the same wisdom are bound to discover the other eventually, whether it’s in this life or the next. Romance can definitely exclude physical affection such as kissing and sex just as it can include writing, dedicating a thread of red string to their other half. Valentine’s Day or not, fated strings remain tied together. It does not matter if they exist in the physical world or if they have made their appearance and have somehow had their human forms forced apart—fate is a stubborn hero, and it will experience dozens of tragic existences if it means finding its missing thread. How’s that for a Valentine’s Day movie idea? Sign me up for a low-budget Hallmark movie with shitty actors and an even shittier title.

Say what you will about tragedy, but for a masochist like me, there is nothing more appealing than a troubled fate, for it makes such a clever story to tell the other thread of my red string.

Yours,

self loathing poet

** QOTD ** _ : _

_Which path will you choose for your fate:_

_ Tragic Hero or Pitiful Death_

** Next Entry ** _: “Nightcall”_

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I better stress this harder...I am NOT a professional who can deal with your suicidal thoughts/actions. I write some nonconforming thoughts and what some might consider dark material, and you're welcome to ask me questions and chat via disenchantedpoetxxx@gmail or my tumblr account holdenfxckingrogue, but PLEASE contact your nearest suicide hotline if you are experiencing harmful thoughts or are contemplating suicide.  
> I'd rather not repeat the experience of trying to talk someone down until five a.m. only for them to stop communicating and me having several panic attacks because the hotline can't do anything unless they were contacted by the at-risk individual directly...I'd rather not have this responsibility pushed onto me, nor would I want to have police at my door if I were the last person you spoke to...so please. Don't contact me for a final goodbye conversation.
> 
> On a cuter note, I have an adorable Valentine's story about two third grade boys on this account if you want a pick me up


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